Page 61 of Taking Savannah
"Yes ma'am."
I reach down and pull my shirt over my head, and his eyes go dark when he sees me and his hips push up against me on reflex.
"Hands off," I say. "One hand. Good side only."
"That's cruel."
"That's medicine. Russo's orders."
"Russo can fuck himself."
I lean down and kiss him. His mouth opens under mine, and his tongue finds mine and the kiss turns deep and slow, the kind that isn't going anywhere fast because fast isn't what this is about. This is about feeling him alive under me. His heartbeat against my palms. His chest expanding with breath. The warmth of his skin and the flex of his stomach when my hips grind forward and backward.
I kiss down his neck. His jaw, the stubble rough against my lips. The hollow of his throat where his pulse hammers. His collarbone, the one I bit last week and left a bruise that's still fading. I work my way down his chest, pressing my mouth to his skin, tasting salt and soap and him, and every time I find a spot that makes his breathing change I stay there and work it until he swears.
"You're destroying me," he says. “I’m going to cum in my boxers like a fucking teen if you don’t stop this shit.”
"You got shot. This is your punishment."
"Getting blown up and then edged by a gorgeous woman is not punishment, it's a fetish I didn't know I had."
"Nobody's getting blown up, drama queen. You got grazed."
"Through and through is not a graze, it's a whole-ass bullet wound, and you're licking my chest while I have it, which makes you either the best girlfriend in the world or clinically insane."
"Both. Now shut up."
I pull his boxers down, and he lifts his hips to help, the movement makes him wince. I get them off and throw them somewhere and he's hard, fully hard, and the sight of him does the thing it always does to my brain, which is turn it off.
Crawling back up, his thumb traces the crease where my leg meets my hip, and the touch is light enough to make me shiver.
"Come closer," he says. "I need to touch you."
"One hand."
"One hand is all I need."
I lean back, hands braced on his thighs and his hand slides between my thighs. His fingers find me wet, soaking, really, the fear and the adrenaline and the relief all converted into a want so intense I can feel my pulse between my legs. He groans when he feels it and his fingers slide through me, parting me, finding my clit and pressing.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Right there."
He works me with his fingers. Slow circles on my clit, then two fingers pushing inside me, curling, finding the spot that makes my thighs clench around his hand. I'm bracing myself on his thighs and my head is dropped back and my hair is falling around us and the sounds I'm making are loud and I don't care who hears them through these walls.
"You're so wet," he says. "All that just from being scared for me?"
"All that from being pissed at you. Anger makes me horny."
"I'll remember that."
"You better." I reach forward and wrap my hand around his cock. He's hot and thick in my grip and the sound he makes when I squeeze is guttural and desperate and I stroke him twice, three times, spreading the precum down his length.
"I need you inside me," I say. "Now."
"Then take it, vixen. It's yours."
I lift my hips and guide him to my pussy and sink down.
The stretch is the same as every time and different from every time, because every time I take him inside me it rewires something in my nervous system. Tonight the rewiring is more intense because he's alive and I almost lost him and the combination of relief and desire is so strong I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
